


seesaw weights (or: what is a fulcrum?)

by braigwen



Category: The Dragon Prince (Cartoon)
Genre: Ambiguously Evil Usage Of Language, Explicit Language, F/M, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Sign Language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2018-10-04
Packaged: 2019-07-25 08:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16193861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/braigwen/pseuds/braigwen
Summary: a collection of moments in the histories of both katolis and xadia.





	seesaw weights (or: what is a fulcrum?)

“Your Highness,” said the General as he entered the encampment, bowing, then removed her helmet and handed it back to the assistant behind her, and – Harrow’s brain short-circuited.

She had silky, straight black hair that just barely brushed against her pauldrons as she moved, deep brown eyes like a wellspring, and the gentle hint of a smile on her lips, and of dusted freckles on her cheeks. Her expression shifted from respectful to slightly bemused, maybe unimpressed, as she straightened, and Viren, a step behind him and to his left, brought his staff down on his toes, hard enough for him to feel it through his armoured boots. “Close your mouth, you idiot, or at least use it to speak!” he hissed, and Harrow felt the blood rush to his ears. Of _course_ he’d been gaping.

“My honor to meet you, General,” he said, and she looked at him more strangely; crown pricnes weren’t supposed to be “honored” to meet anyone. He could practically sense Viren’s exasperated face behind him, and her assistant, a younger woman with a quite similar appearance to her, rolled her eyes rather dramatically, making a frustrated grimace down at the helmet she was holding.

 

*

 

“Think of your _sons_!” snarled Viren, yanking and struggling at his shoulders, and he reluctantly lowered his sword – and collapsed onto the ground, sobbing uncontrollably into the ash, feeling the coal-burns on his face and not caring, not minding, _needing_ the pain of it.

 

*

 

He lifted his head blearily, leaning against Viren’s thick robes and blinking, and saw Amaya, dear Amaya, in the centre of the battle, alone, elf corpses littered all around her, face contorted in an unending silent scream. As he watched, she she swept her shield in an arc and threw a moonshadow elf into the air, slashing her sword through another three of them. Her shoulder was dislocated, snapping in and out of place, but she didn’t seem to notice. Another elf darted forwards, ducking underneath her blade, and swept their dagger up to her face; they collapsed, a Katolin arrow through their heart, but Amaya’s face was a gushing sheet of red.

“A cursed blade,” Viren muttered, and though his voice tremored, his legs were still quite steady.

“Harrow,” he said, quietly, hand cool and heavy on his shoulder, “we have to go.”

With an enormous effort, he staggered to his knees; aides and footsoldiers rushed up, but Viren had already caught him, thrown Harrow’s arm around his slim shoulders and and pressed a kiss onto his forehead, just above the heavy crown.

Harrow managed to make his throat work, and forced out a croaking “no”.

“I beg your pardon?” asked Viren, very calmly, still holding him up like a gods-damned invalid schoolboy, and he shook his head, trying to make it think.

“I’m not … leaving Amaya. Not leaving her.”

 

*

 

Gren, a freckled, pale-haired lad of maybe seventeen, let out a shout of relief and ran over, tugging off his gauntlets as he ran and dropping them into the mire of dirt-and-ash-and-blood, heedless. He sucked in his breath when he saw her injuries, but bit his lip and nodded quickly. The barest hint of a smile seemed to force itself onto his lips, apparently as he realised what to say. “General, good to see you. How many fingers am I holding up?”

She must have frowned, because the mass of crimson on her forehead cracked to reveal a slim lightning-line of skin underneath. Slowly, her hands moved from where they’d been resting on her similarly stained torso: “fuck you”.

Gren let out a relieved, breathless laugh, and said out loud “she’s okay!”

 

*

 

Harrow’s greenstone eyes were faintly burning, fear Viren knew he refused to express coming out as anger. “Do you begrudge my sons their lives?”

Viren thought of Ezran and his brother, away safe at their winter house with Amaya, while Soren stood as the last desperate guard outside Harrow’s bedchamber. Pictured him learning against the heavy wooden door, the life draining from his eyes even as he kept it shut. Saw his ashen, bloodied face as the moonshadow elves stepped past his body.

“No,” he said, because what else could he say?

_But I do begrudge my son his death._


End file.
